


A Yearly Tradition

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Savvy's Holiday Fic [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Daily Prompt Day 20 Eggnog, Eggnog, F/M, WWII to present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21875614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Late in the war, Steve and Peggy share a bottle of brandy and Steve promises to introduce her to eggnog. When Steve's plane goes down in the ice, Peggy makes a toast in Steve's honour her yearly tradition.
Relationships: Peggy Carter & Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Series: Savvy's Holiday Fic [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558120
Kudos: 15





	A Yearly Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the shortest thing I've ever written. I just wanted a small snippet, to get something written for the prompt.
> 
> A few weeks ago a Brit on Twitter was wondering why Americans drank eggnog, which got me thinking that I wanted to write about the dissonance some time. Lo and behold we have the prompt. Ironically, when researching the history of eggnog (yes, I am that nerd) it originated in Merry Olde England. So I'm not really sure if we've embraced it while it's fallen out of favor in the UK, but I'm basing this fic on the idea that Eggnog Is Not a Thing in England.

“It’s what now?” Peggy drawled, bare feet in Steve’s lap, uniform blouse loosened exactly one button at the neck. It was the most relaxed he’d ever seen her. Probably because she was three drinks into the very fine French brandy the Commandos had ‘liberated’ from a Hydra compound. “You drink  _ eggs?” _

Steve grinned, patting one of her feet, “No, no, Pegs, it’s not--well, yeah, it  _ is. _ But like, delicious?” He cast his mind back fondly to the Christmasses when his pop had been alive, before the Depression hit the Rogers’ family like an out of control freight train. Until then though, eggnog had been a yearly tradition. They’d had a big punch bowl of eggnog every Christmas Eve, at the party they held. His ma had always made sure to set some aside for him and Bucky before his pop added the bootleg hooch. Sipping his brandy, Steve thought that his old man would have loved to get his hands on this stuff. The party would have been  _ swinging. _

“Sounds dreadful,” Peggy sniffed. 

“It’s great--you’ll see. After the war,” Steve enthused, “I’ll introduce you to it. You’ll fall in love.”

Peggy arched a perfectly plucked brow, “After the war, eh?” She smiled a bit, “Will I be trying this hideous egg drink in America?”

Going a bit pink, Steve cleared his throat, “Why not? You’d love Brooklyn, Peg. I’ll show it to you someday, show you where me and Buck grew up.” It was-- a bit presumptuous of him to assume she would want to accompany him to America once this was all over. They’d only shared a few kisses and some mad flirting. “You’ll love it so much you’ll want to have it every Christmas.”

She tipped a bit more brandy in her cup and saluted him, “I’ll hold you to that promise, Steve Rogers.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The first Christmas following the defeat of the Axis powers was one of deprivation in an England still operating under rationing. It was merry though, with people eager to forget the grim years of bombing and loss and look forward to the future.

Peggy Carter, not yet mustered out of Her Majesty’s service, was home on leave. Her mother had arranged to host a party and had literally invited everyone they knew who was still among the living, and not currently serving in Europe. The party was a huge success, and Peggy enjoyed herself. But as Christmas Eve drew to a close and midnight approached, she had to escape the crush of people. 

Snagging a decanter of brandy from her father’s study, she slipped into the hallway, grabbing an overcoat at random. Wrapped in the scent of wool and a stranger’s cologne, she stole into the unoccupied garden. Breath fogging in the cold, she sat on one of the low stone walls and stared up at the frozen stars. 

“Merry Christmas, Steve.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


“Is there anything we can do to make you comfortable, Miss Carter?” The director’s secretary asked. 

She smiled at him coolly, “I think I’m quite settled, thank you.” He nodded and turned to go, but she had caught sight of the calendar and she had thought of something. “Oh--tell me, where can I find some eggnog?”   
  


* * *

  
  
  


As she had done every Christmas Eve for the past forty-three years, Peggy slipped away from the dinner party. She was the hostess, but her staff would keep things moving smoothly in her brief absence. After all, this was a yearly tradition, a standing appointment with the past.

Standing at the tall windows in the bedroom of her Park Avenue classic six, she held her leaded crystal glass of chilled eggnog (laced with the finest of French brandies) aloft. Saluting the distant stars, she said softly, “Merry Christmas, Steve.”


End file.
